


The Photograph

by vysila



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-29
Updated: 2012-09-29
Packaged: 2017-11-15 07:08:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/524533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vysila/pseuds/vysila
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Napoleon has an obsession.</i><br/>Written October 2011 for the mfu-scrapbook community Halloween challenge on livejournal.<br/>Prompt was a gorgeous photomanipulation by quoshara.<br/>Thanks to elmey for her excellent editorial suggestions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Photograph

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Quoshara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quoshara/gifts).



"Who is this, Aunt Amy?"

My eight year old nephew thrust a photograph under my nose. I laid down my book and refocused on the small colorful square Napoleon clutched between grubby, nail-bitten fingers. 

Oh, that photograph. Trust my little Napoleon to discover the one true mystery in all those boxes and boxes of family and tourist photographs. "His name is Illya, dear."

Napoleon screwed his face into a comical mask of puzzlement as he tried to wrap his mouth around the unusual name. "Ill-ya? That's a funny name."

"It's a Russian name. I believe Eee-lee-yah is the correct way to pronounce it."

"Russian? Like a Soviet, you mean?"

"I don't know. I didn't ask." Trust the grandson of a diplomat to think in political terms. 

"All Russians are Soviet now, whether they want to be or not. At least that's what Grandfather says." Napoleon pursed his lips and stared at the photograph. "Does he live in Russia? Is he part of our family?" He began counting, holding up a finger for each item. "I have cousins in Canada, England, Spain, France, and now Russia?"

"No, he's not a part of our family. Just someone I took a picture of by accident."

"Oh." He considered that for a moment. "Did you take this picture in Russia? I mean, the Soviet Union?"

"Yes, I did. In the Kazansky train station in Moscow."

Napoleon's eyes grew round with surprise. "You were in the Soviet Union? When?"

"A long time ago, before you were even born." I had been a dilettante in those days, flitting from interest to interest as befitted the bored, wealthy bride of an aging industrialist. Our hosts had permitted me unusual liberties; they'd been hungry for the money my husband was prepared to invest in soviet industry.

Napoleon tilted his head and scrutinized the picture with a thoughtful, sideways glance. "But who is he? Why did you take his picture? Is he a war hero? He's wearing a medal. And why is his coat green? Grandfather says everyone wears black or red in the Soviet Union."

"I don't know. I don't really know anything about him." I felt oddly defensive under my nephew's barrage of curiosity. 

"You know his name. That's something."

"I just asked if I could take his picture."

"You speak Russian?"

"No. But he spoke English."

"Isn't speaking English against the law there?"

"Of course not. Merely unusual." 

Just how unusual was it, though? It had never occurred to the younger me to question the young man's ability to speak English. He had, in fact, spoken it very well, sounding more British than Russian. I'd taken him for an Englishman until he told me his name. 

Napoleon slowly, gently traced a forefinger across the photograph. "What did he say?"

"Good heavens, Napoleon! That was fifteen years ago. You expect me to remember our conversation?"

"You remember his name. I bet you can remember lots more if you concentrate. Did he just get off that train?"

"I'm not sure. It was a damp, gray day. Foggy. I wanted to photograph how the fog and steam blurred the hard lines of the locomotive and those colorful red wheels. All of a sudden he was there, right in the middle of the scene. I took the photograph between one step and the next. Then I asked him if he minded that I had taken his picture."

"What did he say?"

"He said something like, I am honored."

"Wow! He sure was polite."

"He was, very. Almost charming, now that I think on it."

"Did he smile? He looks so serious."

"Not then. He asked if I were an American and I said yes. Then he said, I hope you will take pleasant memories of Russia home with you to share with your family."

I reached out to take the photograph and Napoleon reluctantly surrendered it. "I said I would, and if I forgot anything, I would always have my photographs to remind me."

"See, you remembered a lot more than you thought you would."

I smiled at Napoleon's eager, upturned face. ”You have a talent for making me want to remember."

"What did he say next?"

Even though I was looking at the photograph, I saw a different moment in time. "He smiled then, a beautiful, sweet smile. And he said, I'll still be right here waiting."

It had been such an odd thing to say, now that I thought about it. "He started to walk off then. I called after him, what is your name? He looked over his shoulder and said, Illya."

Napoleon shivered, his voice practically a whisper as he reclaimed the photograph. "Is this the only picture you took of him?"

Suddenly I no longer wanted to talk about the photograph. "It was, and you certainly are curious about this man."

"I think he's beautiful. Like an angel. I wish I could see him smile."

Elenor, Napoleon's sister, who up until now had ignored our conversation, giggled. "Lee's got a girlfriend, Lee's got a girlfriend," she sang. "I'm going to tell Mommy, Lee's got a girlfriend." She raced from the room with as much speed as her six-year old legs could muster.

Napoleon scowled and turned pink, but didn't let go of the photograph.

I patted his shoulder. "Never be ashamed of admiring beauty, Napoleon. No matter what form it takes."

He nodded and cupped the photograph protectively against his chest. "Can I keep it?"

"May I," I automatically corrected. I hesitated a moment before I added, "and yes, you may."

* * * * * * * *

"You still have the photograph."

While I inspected his dormitory room, Napoleon struggled to pull his varsity sweater over his head. "Which photograph is that, Aunt Amy?"

"Illya." 

How very strange that I remembered the name of that young man. 

"Oh. Um, yeah." His face finally appeared, flushed as pink as it had been the day Elenor teased him about the photo. He glanced toward the bureau, where he had casually stuck a few photos into the mirror frame. Family, friends, himself beaming with pride in his new varsity sweater – and an old, somewhat faded image of a complete stranger.

"He made quite an impression on you, didn't he?"

"I guess." Napoleon shrugged. He hesitated and then said, "I've always felt like I know him somehow. Or will, someday. Like he's an important part of my life."

"He's not real, darling."

"Sure he is. I mean, somewhere he's real. Unless you took a picture of a ghost."

"Well, I suppose not. But he's hardly still that young man. He must be around my age, I expect. If he's still alive."

Napoleon hugged me fiercely. "You're the youngest person I know. And he never ages."

"The magic of photography." I looked again at the picture, taken so long ago. "I remember that day – and him - so clearly. I can almost hear his voice."

"Sometimes I can, too."

I looked sharply at my nephew, who met my gaze quite levelly. Napoleon had always been a sensitive, imaginative boy. A childish fascination with an unusual photograph was one thing. But this…?

"What do you mean?"

He laughed. "Oh, don't worry, I'm not going bonkers. I was just teasing." He tucked my arm through his. "Now, let me take my favorite auntie to lunch at the best hamburger joint in town."

I let him steer me away from the mirror and its evidence of obsession, but I knew a lie when I heard one. He hadn't been joking. Not at all.

* * * * * * * *

Napoleon's new apartment was quite beautiful, but impersonal. Unusually tidy for a bachelor, even one as fastidious as my nephew. Very modern, expensive, and bereft of the personal clutter that marks a home. The living room felt like a decorator's showroom, although the spectacular view of the East River almost made up for the lack of personality within.

I wandered from room to room, feeling sick at heart. This was the price my Napoleon paid for his ideals, a cold, unwelcoming retreat to lick his wounds in after a hard day's work. He would have to find his comfort in his purpose. 

Only in his otherwise neutral bedroom did I find a hint of the man who lived here. A single photograph, now richly framed in gleaming brass, occupied the place of honor on the bedside table rather than haphazardly stuck into a mirror frame.

I understood why this was the only photograph on display, the only open link to Napoleon's past. Today was not the first day I regretted bringing his name to Alexander Waverly's attention, but I felt the regret more keenly now. An ache squeezed my chest.

I sensed my nephew behind me in the doorway. "Have you learned anything more about him?"

Napoleon was no longer self-conscious about the photograph. "Not exactly. I'm afraid I've used my contacts to try to track him down, with little success. There have been possibilities, but no certainties."

He half-smiled, an ironic twist of the lips. "We think he was a spy." The half-smile expanded into a genuine smile. "Maybe he influenced my career choice."

If Napoleon expected me to smile in return, he was disappointed. "I wouldn't be a bit surprised." I looked back at the photograph that had haunted my beloved nephew for twenty years. "Does he still speak to you?"

"Not really. But I do believe he's waiting, just as he promised."

"For you?"

He touched the photograph, traced the lines of a face that was surely as familiar to him as his own by now. "I'd like to think so."

* * * * * * * *

"Oh, Auntie, there's no need for you to upset yourself any more today. The children and I can take care of cleaning out his apartment. The attorney already said there really wasn't anything of value in the apartment, that everything was in Lee's safe deposit box."

"I know, my sweet." I patted Elenor's arm, the one holding me by the elbow, even though I was perfectly steady in my sensible shoes. "I don't expect to find anything valuable here. Just a sense of your brother, perhaps. A few last memories to hold dear."

The apartment was as lifeless as the first time I'd seen it. Ruthlessly luxurious, heartlessly neat. I knew there was nothing to see in any room but one.

The brass frame still sat in its place of honor but even from the doorway I could see that the photograph was only of a locomotive with red wheels and a smokescreen of steam and fog. The picture I'd intended to take in the first place, before a young blond man stepped into the frame and changed more than one life forever.

Wherever they are, my Napoleon and his Illya, I hope they are happy together.

* * * * * * * *


End file.
